The Way to heaven in a string, or, Mr. A--'s argument burlesqu'd a poem. Canto I.

Mr. A—'s ARGUMENT BURLESQU'D. THERE are ſome things are counted Real, In which we Mortals do agree all: Things form'd by cunning Allegories We do account to be meer Stories. Some write of Fights of Mice and Froggs, And others prate of Maſtiff Dogs: One has the Fairy Queen eſpy'd, And told the Tale, as if he ly'd, Of Tib and Tom, and Mib and Mab, Names ne'er attain'd by Poet Squab. But while ſuch Fools do pleaſe Mens Fancies With idle Canto's of Romances, I'll tell you of a greater Knight Then e'er made Love, or mov'd in Fight. He neither was a Prieſt nor Parſon, Or Warriors Saddle laid his Arſe on; Yet in Divinity Profound, He could great Sophiſters confound; Knew difference 'twixt the Jews and Turks, And had read Learned Bunyan's Works; Had Brooks his Golden Pippins read, And by the wiſer Folk 'tis ſaid, He can as learnedly diſpute As Parſon Keith, or fam'd Giles Shute. He ſagely in his Youth foreſaw That Truths Divine need Props of Law, To ſtudy which he did adhere, And in't became a Bariſter: He ſomething elſe at length became, An Office got I muſt not name; Ne Sutor ultra Crepidam. He never bow'd his ſtubborn Knee In any Feats of Chivalry, Deſpiſing ſuch Knight-Errantry, Where People for the very nonce Do fracture one another's Bones; As Bullocks fight in Marſhes fed, To try which has the hardeſt Head. He never lov'd the diſmal Sounds Of murd'ring Guns, of Blood and Wounds: He ſtill abhorr'd the frightful Sight, The ſad effect of cruel Fight. He never got a broken Head, Or for a Wound had Plaiſter ſpread; Had no miſchance in any Points, To diſlocate his nimble Joints, But ſuch Diſaſters as befal In Battels Metaphyſical; Which, tho ſecuring Head and Snout, Do craze the Brains, not beat 'em out. By a deep inſight in Religion He found how Mahomet, and his Pigeon, Did fly from hence to bleſt Abodes, Tranſlated to the very Gods; With ev'ry Pinion not unhing'd, And not one Feather of 'em ſing'd. In ſacred Scripture he had read How Enoch and Elijah fled To Heav'n by Faith, and in their flying Diſdain'd the Common way of Dying, Which does Mankind in Thraldom fetter, Only becauſe they know no better. He and his Printer did agree To ſet men from this Bondage free; And now Sir Knight has got a Squire, As fit as e'er he could deſire: To preach this Doctrine would be vain, Diſturb the Head, and Lungs would ſtrain. Let Parſons preach, and Clerks go whilſtle, They'l do the buſineſs by Epiſtle, Which has of late gain'd Proſelytes Of Tolandiſts and Aſgilites, Who form new Articles Divine, Exceeding far our Thirty nine. In London Town there's ſcarcely found One Corner of that fertile Ground, Which does not to the Age afford New Sects all founded on the Word, Who like Logicians do diſpute, And one another ſtill confute; All of 'em Orthodox, and all Alike are Apoſtolical. But tho they make ſuch zealous pother, Some do thrive better than the other; As Plants more generous are found To flouriſh beſt in fatteſt Ground: Some tall ones ſcatter do their Seed, And new ones do as Maggots breed; Whilſt theſe to height are always ſhoving, Some others only are improving. St. Pauls ſcarce outdoes Salters-Hall, Tho its high Roof be far more tall: Octavo Band, and Cloak Divine, As Folio Caſſock is as fine: The little Roundhead looks as big As Biſhop in his powder'd Wig. And eke a wondrous Reformation Is happened in this godly Nation. After a many ſtubborn Greetings, The King is pray'd for in the Meetings, That he may live long in the Nation; Of publick Funds a long duration: For theſe no King did e'er adore, But what encreas'd their private Store. Pardon, good Reader, I digreſs, 'Tis common in Pindarick Verſe, And eke in this it muſt be too, If I but pleaſe to make it ſo; And I, without a Reaſon for't, Will make em long, or cut 'em ſhort. Poets are Princes in their Station, Although they govern not the Nation; No man their Pow'r did yet diſpute, But always held 'em abſolute. Now had Sir Knight his Brain imploy'd How he might conquer, and avoid Old Death, that cunning ſubtle Fox, Who lays Mankind in Earthy Stocks: Says he, good Squire, 'tis but folly To ſit thus penſive, melancholy; Put but my Notions into print, We'll conquer Death, or Devil's in't. I am Robuſtick, tho I'm Civil, And grown a Match e'en for the Devil. The Crooked Serpent, who by Lying Entices Mankind into Dying, So far does fooliſh Men deceive, They cannot the dull Cuſtom leave. Had they but Faith, they need not die, Like Enoch might ad Aſtra fly, And view the Regions of the Sky. But here the Squire to Knight reply'd, You have not yet your Notion try'd: Your mighty Faith your Senſe enthrals, 'Tis Philoſophically falſe; For what is born muſt ſurely die, Or elſe Philoſophers do lie: All that is nouriſh'd is unſtable, And is revera corruptible; And Death, deciding of the ſtrife, Is but Corruption of our Life. You muſt not Notions, Sir, eſpouſe That do the Bonds of Nature looſe, And with ſuch vehemence diſpute 'em, When e'ery Church-yard does confute 'em. Beſides, Sir, where is your Protection Againſt received Reſurrection? For it appears to all the Wiſe, If we don't die we ſhall not riſe. You may for this be brought in Court, And there be made to anſwer for't; They'l uſe you there like any Dog, When you're once ſeiz'd by Robbin Hog: For, Sir, the Liberty to ſcrible Allows you not at Church to nibble; And there I'll leave you in the lurch, When you plant Cannons 'gainſt the Church. Such things as theſe would whilome tear yo, In the late Reign of Great Rogero: Not that Rogero of great Note, Of whom Orlando juſtly wrote, Who with Alcyna did diſcourſe By Aſſignations of Amours; But that Rogero which did fill The World with Obſervators ill; Who ſuch ill Tenents to redreſs, Was made Oppreſſor of the Preſs; VVho tho he's outed of his Reign, His Squire's Pow'r does ſtill remain. To this reply'd the Doughty knight, Thou ſhalt not me with Fancies fright. Nought that's heroick, or that's rare-a, But was atchiev'd by Great Don Zara, VVhoſe Actions gave his Name a Hogo, He got the Title of Del Fogo; And tho he was a man of Valour, He oft was ſqueez'd by Fortunes Squallor; And Sancho too (his Fates be thanked) VVas ſadly toſſed in a Blanket: Yet theſe did ne'er repine at Fate, To keep off Blow would ſcarce guard Pate. I will encounter Jews and Turks, Defy the Devil and his VVorks, Both thy Rogero, and his Squire, And their Eccleſiaſtick Fire. Roger belong'd unto that Prieſthood VVhich never yet did do the leaſt good: He was a Light to the Dark-Lanthorns, VVhich neither Sockets have, nor han't Horns. If theſe my Notions do moleſt, It's Perſecution, Sir, at beſt; Of modern date a Law too ſaith, No man ſhall ſuffer for his Faith. Here did the Squire long ſtand amaz'd, And after on the Knight had gaz'd; Quoth he, it is not Perſecution, VVhen againſt you in execution: Our Laws do only favour weak And Infant Chriſtians, who can't take The ſtronger Meats; but you are ſtrong, Almoſt Omnipotent in wrong. Your ſelf-applauding Vanity Is meer downright Profanity: You know a wondrous deal of Faith, But not one word the Scripture ſaith. 'Tis true, good Enoch and Eliah Alive to Saints above did fly-a; And this was done by Faith and Prayer, But neither of 'em was a Lawyer; They of Canary took no Doſe, Nor tippl'd Claret at the Roſe: They in their Lives were exemplary, Seldom or never did miſcarry. VVe can't in you like Faith believe, Unleſs you like Example give. Quoth Knight, my Friend, thour't very dull, Good God! Full fill thy empty Scull. Thoſe Tenents which from Faith ariſe, To Mortal Men are Myſteries: It is not likely they ſhould know The way tranſlated Men do go; They cannot ſee the upper Skies, Becauſe they look with dying Eyes; They can no more ſuch Truth unriddle Than Story of the Bear and Fiddle, VVas ſung, but broke off in the middle. As for my way of living, wou'd It were as pious Enoch's good. But here, my Friend, you do me banter; For you do know I am no Ranter: Altho for Grace I don't much ſtickle, And ſigh and groan at Conventicle; VVith little Band am ſeldom found, Or Locks are circumciſed round; Yet tho I do not cant and pray, I am not half ſo lewd as they: And Godly Looks do ne'er impart The ſecret Treaſure of the Heart, Which, if it does once entertain Vile Thoughts, Religion is but vain. I in a Band could look as grave As any Conventicle Knave, Cou'd wring my Chaps into Grimaces, And make a hundred Godly Faces, Cou'd ſit as dull as any Log, And grunt and groan like any Hog; But theſe are odd ſorts of Religions, Contriv'd by Knaves for fooliſh Wigeons; May be for them a Godly Faſhion, But are not fitted for Tranſlation. All my Diſciples muſt be airy, And dance as nimble as a Fairy, Muſt never think of ſordid Dying, But practiſe muſt the Art of Flying. The End of the firſt Canto.